Therapy You Were a Friend to Me
by thegreatcatspy95
Summary: Sherlock is forced to see a Psychiatrist by Mycroft. It turns out that Psychiatrist is John. *** As chapters progress more characters will be introduced...Eventual Johnlock... ******I don't own anything I'm just a lonely teenage girl...
1. Chapter 1

As soon as Sherlock strode into the waiting room of Hanley Psychiatrics he began to plot his brother's death. Although loathing Mycroft and planning his demise was honestly not going to get him out of his current predicament, it would make him feel immensely better. He thought it over for exactly two seconds and then realized that unfortunately there was no plan he could legitimately see being worthy enough punishment, so he just settled for commenting on his brothers weight gain during the next unwelcomed visit. Sherlock absolutely resented the fact that Mycroft had manipulated him into agreeing with the almost comical request that he see a Psychiatrist. He scoffed at the very idea of someone thinking _they_ could analyze _him_. The noise caused the receptionist to glare at him. She was mid-twenties, over worked, and judging by the puffy eyes had clearly been crying. There was a broken picture frame in the trashcan beside her desk of her and a man, most likely her boyfriend…correction ex-boyfriend. Sentiment, it ruined people.

'Excuse me,' He said walking over to the receptionist's desk. 'Where do I sign in?' The receptionist blushed slightly, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear, as Sherlock gave her an apparent smile.

'Is this your first time visiting Hanley?' She asked opening a filing cabinet. Sherlock bit back the _obviously_ that was on the tip of his tongue and just nodded yes. He was not in the mood to deal with foolish receptionists who felt the need to go home, cry, and watch something wretched like "Love Actually", to get over a pathetic break up. 'Alright then, if you could just fill out these forms, and take a seat over there," She said while holding out a clipboard and pointing to a row of uncomfortable plastic chairs. 'Dr. Watson will be right with you.'

He sighed, and sat down at the very end of the row of chairs, observing his surroundings. There was no one else in the room except for a younger girl, who was curled into a chair at the opposite end reading. Her nails were bitten down to the nub, she was about a stone underweight, and she was fidgeting. It was obvious she had been dealing with emotional abuse, and was struggling with an anxiety disorder. He noticed that she was wearing long sleeves, and subconsciously kept pulling them down. She self-harmed. The girl was most likely suffering from Borderline Personality disorder. Sherlock wondered how long it took this young woman's idiot psychiatrist to figure that out.

As he contemplated ways he would be able to get confidential information out of a psychiatrist a woman began to walk out of one of the hallways leading to the psychiatric offices. She had blood shot eyes and a tremor, and as she walked closer Sherlock noticed that her salivary glands were swollen. She was an alcoholic defiantly, but as she walked out of the office she did not discuss her next appointment with the receptionist. She was most likely not a patient, so she must have been a family member of one of the Psychiatrists. Was it his Psychiatrist? It wasn't as interesting as a murder, but at least the possibility kept him occupied.

'Mr. Holmes,' the receptionist called from behind her desk. 'Dr. Watson will see you now. He's the second door on the right.'

Sherlock stood up and began to walk down the corridor. He paused outside of the office door, and began to devise a plan. He could knock on the door exactly three times having spaced two seconds in between each so he will be perceived to have OCD, or he could barge in so this so called doctor will think he has traits of a narcissistic personality. Either way he has-

The office door swung open cutting of Sherlock's train of thought.

'You must be Mr. Holmes. I'm your psychiatrist Dr. John Watson, please come in.' Sherlock followed the shorter man in and took a seat across from him. Then the silence began. He was absolutely comfortable with silence though. The quieter it was the easier it was to analyze the so called Dr. Watson. From what Sherlock had gathered so far this man was _almost _completely boring. Judging by his stance while walking into the room he was military, recently released, possibly for physical or personal reasons. Maybe his contract had just run out. He was in his early thirties, and had one sibling. The sibling also happened to be the alcoholic who had recently walked out of the building, which could most likely attribute to the stress that was evident on Dr. Watson's face. He began to wonder why of all people Mycroft chose this man to 'fix' him. Sherlock watched him grab a yellow note pad out of one of the drawers in his desk and readjust himself onto the couch across from Sherlock.

'You can talk anytime you like, and it can be about anything you want. Or you could not talk at if you prefer. It's fine whichever you choose. It's all fine.' Dr. Watson looked expectantly up at him, but Sherlock just grimaced at the feeble attempt of conversation.

'I know it's fine thank you, but I have nothing to say as of yet.' Sherlock glared at him in determination. He decided to forgo acting out a personality disorder of any sort. It would be much more fun to take up this man's time by ignoring the entire purpose of being here.

'Well if you have nothing to say then why-' Sherlock cut off his absurd question.

'Afghanistan or Iraq?' _Didn't these people have to have some level of intellect_, he thought.

'Afghanistan, how did you know that?' He asked while writing down on his absurd notepad _is highly intelligent…does not care to conform to conversational norms_.

'If you're just figuring out now that I have high intelligence, Mycroft has poorer taste than I thought.'

'It's interesting that you focus on that, and not the more offensive statement of you not conforming. Who is Mycroft by the way, and why does he have poor taste?' Dr. Watson asked while stretching himself out on his sofa.

'He is my malevolent brother, and also my archenemy in everyday life. He decided upon you as my psychiatrist, and manipulated me into coming to this session.' Sherlock crossed his arms feeling content now that it was blatantly obvious he did not want to be here.

'Do normal people have that, archenemies I mean?' Dr. Watson put down the notepad, and began to lean forward clearly interested in where this conversation was going.

'I don't know, do psychiatrists normally have alcoholic sisters?' Sherlock asked, smiling triumphantly. _This is it I'm about to be kicked out_, he thought.

'No, I suppose not,' He chuckled. Sherlock looked up in surprise. He was laughing. He was actually _laughing_. 'That's really amazing though. How did you know that?'

'I saw her walking out. You both have very similar physical characteristics; below average height, sandy blonde hair, and broad shoulders. She has much better fashion taste than you though. Your jumpers are hideous.' He just shrugged as if it had been brought to his attention on several previous occasions.

'And Afghanistan, how did you know about that one?'

'Your stance as you opened your door was clearly military, and the fact that you have a tan line on just your hands and face says you've recently been overseas.' Sherlock sighed leaning back in his chair, any moment now it was going to be too much and he was going to get thrown out.

'Brilliant, absolutely brilliant,' Exclaimed Dr. Watson smiling earnestly.

'That's not what people usually say,' said Sherlock crossing his legs in shock.

'Well what do people usually say?' Sherlock didn't know if he should answer a question that would actually give this man insight. Even if he said it jokingly he knew psychology, and he knew how this would be perceived. Something about this man though made him care not all that much.

'They usually just say piss off,' Sherlock said giggling uncontrollably.

'Th-tha-that wouldn't be very professional o-of me would it?' He asked in between laughs.

'No, no I guess not'.

They both took a few minutes to calm down when finally Dr. Watson Spoke. 'Look we only have a couple minutes left. It's a short session, but I would really love for you to come back.' Sherlock sighed and began to state how unlikely that was when Dr. Watson cut him off.

'I know this is obviously not your cup of tea, but I think you could benefit from this. Just think it over. You can either schedule an appointment here after you leave my office, or when you get home, but I would like to see you again.' He got up and opened the door for Sherlock to leave. 'See you next time, maybe?' he asked hopefully.

'Possibly, I must warn you though that I do not intend on compiling with the typical psychiatric model,' Said Sherlock standing up and walking out of the door.

'Yes, well that much is expected,' Dr. Watson smiled at him, and Sherlock knew that he would be back.


	2. Chapter 2

It was only four thirty; however, John had already felt like a whole year had passed since this morning. Seeing his sister always drained him, but today was even worse. He wanted to fix her. He wanted for her to just not be a drunk. He knew that things like that didn't work quite that easy, but he couldn't help resenting himself for not being able to mend his broken little sister. When he saw her today he realized that she couldn't be saved unless she decided to save herself. He knew that the latter was unlikely, and it devastated him. He wouldn't give up on her though. No matter how many late night calls he received to come and pick her up from the pub he would be there.

On top of that there was Sherlock Holmes. John honestly had no idea how someone could be arrogant and incredibly charming at the same time, but Sherlock pulled it off flawlessly. Now though he had to sit down and review his medical file which he knew would take at least an hour. He sat down at his desk and looked at his computer. Opening up his email account he realized that he had two hundred and fifty six messages to go through. _I'm just one man for fucks sake_, thought John. He took out his mobile. If he was actually going to survive the work day he was going to need the promise of a drink later on, so he decided to text Mike.

**Hey, Stamford fancy going to the pub later?**

_Sure, just meet me at Barts k? _

** Defiantly. Thanks.**

_No problem. By the way when you stop by theirs someone I want you to meet._

** No Mike. No setups. Remember the last one?**

_Yeah but this is different this guy's good. Little different but good._

**Oh yeah sounds so promising -_-**

_What if I said first pint on me?_

** Fine. I just have to review a file. B right over. **

Sherlock's medical file was a bit not good. In fact john would say that his file was just bad. Looking through it all he couldn't decide what was worse, the horribly incorrect diagnoses, or Sherlock's past drug addiction that John had no inkling about. Honestly, the man was completely put together. Sherlock Holmes seemed in control of everything he did and every word that came out of his obnoxious mouth. So why did he turn to drugs? And out of all the drugs he could have chosen why on earth we would he decided on cocaine. Then there was the fact that his previous psychiatrist came to the conclusion of Sherlock being a sociopath. John had studied sociopaths before and he knew Sherlock was not one of them. _Of course_, he reminded himself, _you've only had one session with him_. No, no John just knew. He knew what Sherlock was and he was not that. He cared. Deep down there was someone who really wanted acceptance and it was John's job to help him get to that point. John rubbed his hands over his face trying to scrub away the stress that was gnawing at him from the inside. He couldn't fix his sister. He couldn't fix his patients, and there was no hope at all in him fixing himself. Alcohol though would defiantly help with the fixing, so he turned off the computer and headed in the direction of St. Barts.

As John walked into St. Barts he saw Mike Stamford standing by the lifts waiting for him, smiling all too eagerly, and he thought to himself _this is gonna be good_.

'Look,' said Stamford. 'He's in the lab right now doing some science stuff. Honestly I have no clue what he's up to. The guy's absolutely bonkers.' John rolled his eyes at the fantastic description of the man he was about to be set up with. 'No, he's goo…mad, but good.'

'Come on Johnny would I set you up with some bloke that I knew you weren't going to like?' He asked as John followed him down a long hallway.

'One don't call me Johhny, and two don't you remember the one time with the guy th-'

'Yes, yes I remember,' chuckled Stamford cutting him off. 'He wasn't that bad, was he?'

'He asked me at the end of the date if "I would wike a kizzy wizzy". How is that not bad?' Asked John crossing his arms looking stunned at how Stamford could think for two seconds he was a good matchmaker.

'Fine, you're right that one was not so good. Give this guy a chance though. Like I said first pint on me, okay?' John could feel himself giving in. He sighed inwardly to himself as Mike opened the door to the lab and walked in, because he couldn't help but follow him. 'Oh there he is John behind the microscope as always. John I would like you to meet-'

'Sherlock…Sherlock Holmes.' This couldn't be happening, yet there he was in his perfect suit bent over lab equipment. This was so unfair. He was supposed to be this man's doctor. Meeting him like this had to be some horrible cosmic karma. He wasn't even allowed to acknowledge a patient outside of sessions unless they acknowledged him, let alone go blurting out their names like they were old friends from uni.

'Oh you two know each other,' Said Stamford clapping John on the back. 'That's great. Where'd you guys meet?' John looked unknowingly at Sherlock who of course didn't seem to care at all. He had no idea whether Sherlock wanted him to lie or be truthful. Either way it's not like _he_ was able to say they meet through therapy. That could very well get him fired.

'We're mutual friends of Lestrade. John helped him with a case once. A murder was saying that he was mentally unstable. Lestrade didn't buy it, and he didn't either. The man is now incarcerated,' Replied Sherlock coolly, not once looking up from the microscope.

'Yup mutual friends of Lestrade…yes…the case thing…all true,' John sputtered out. Lying unfortunately had never been one of John's strong suits. Sherlock finally looked up at him from the microscope wrinkling his eyebrows together as if he wanted to make sure John wasn't about to have a seizure.

'Well,' said Stamford enthusiastically. John was struggling not punch the smug look right off his face. 'We're about to head down to the pub Sherlock, and I know you're busy and all, but why don't you come with us?'

'That would be delightful,' Sherlock smiled, but this smile was completely different from the charming smirk that John had seen in his office. This smile was mischievous. This smile sent chills down John's spine.

The short walk down to the pub was incredibly awkward. John could tell Sherlock wasn't the type of person to make small talk, and he himself had absolutely no energy to fill in the silence. This left Stamford walking in between them rambling on about how much of a brat his kid was the entire time. Then when they finally did get to the pub he immediately excused himself to the loo leaving John and Sherlock sitting beside themselves staring at the now lukewarm beers.

'You know this is really unprofessional,' John said not being able to handle the quiet surrounding them. 'I don't even know if you should see me again after this.' Sherlock looked up from staring at his beer.

'Why would you stop being my psychiatrist?' Asked Sherlock obviously confused. 'Did I calling you John instead of Dr. Watson offend you? If so I do apologize that was not my intention.'

John scoffed. 'No that's not at all what made me uncomfortable. What's making me uncomfortable is the fact that I am your psychiatrist and we are not supposed to hang about in pubs together.'

'I was viewing this as our second session, honestly. Especially since I know for a fact Stamford has left the building so we could "get to know each other".' Sherlock smirked and took a sip of his beer. God John had never met a more pompous man in his life.

'You've got to be kidding me,' Sighed John. 'Alright well if this is our second session, then I get to ask you questions that you will be uncomfortable answering.'

'You'll get an answer if I want to answer them Doctor.'

'You don't have to call me doctor. We're in a pub and we're drinking beer. John will suffice. Okay so is the session starting now?' Sherlock nodded in acknowledgment taking another swig of his beer. 'Who's Lestrade and why would I know you from helping him with a murder investigation?'

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'That's two questions John. Bartender shots here please.' He said calling out to a very annoyed overworked man at the bar.

'Don't be difficult. They're simple questions.' John exhaled accepting the shots that the bartender had brought over. 'Here you can have them both.'

'Fine.' Sherlock rolled his eyes again and downed a shot then another. 'Lestrade is a DI for the Scotland Yard. I've been helping him with cases for several months now. No, you're wrong I'm not a private detective. I'm a consulting detective. What it means is that when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me.'

'Why would you assume that I would think you were a private detective?'

'Because you're stupid,' John frowned at the explanation. 'Don't get offended,' Said Sherlock. 'Everyone is.'

'Except for you of course,' John questioned.

'Of course.' Sherlock replied quickly.

'Then why did you do drugs.' Sherlock froze for a second, but only a second, then as if the question was never asked he took another sip of beer. 'Sherlock, I asked you if everyone is _so_ stupid except for you then why did you do drugs?'

'Yes thank you I heard. You know if I was a normal person you would be very good at this job. Unfortunately for you I am not.' Sherlock began to look around the room until finally he spotted the bartender. 'Yes another pint over here please.' He said waving him over.

'Sherlock I've only had two sips of my beer. Maybe you should slow down.' John said sympathetically. He began to question asking about the drugs so early on. Therapy was sometimes like trying to save a stray kitten. If you walked up to the cat too quickly he may run away and never come back, and John wanted Sherlock to come back. 'Okay how about save the drug question for later. Tell me about what you do at work.'

'I already told you. When the police are out of their depths they call me and I explain every single detail to them that they cannot begin to comprehend.'

'Okay like what? Tell me about one of your more recent cases.' For the first time in the entire conversation Sherlock looked up from his glass with what seemed to be actual interest.

'Have you heard about the suicides?' Asked Sherlock apathetically.

John nodded yes. 'Yeah wasn't it somehow all done by s serial killer or something…Wait you solved that? Wow Sherlock that's amazing. How?'

'Simple, I just saw what was around me and put the pieces together. The serial killer wasn't prosecuted. He ended up dying, but all the same it was quite a fun day.'

'Are you disappointed that he didn't end up in jail because morally he deserved to be punished for the crimes he committed or maybe because you were upset that you didn't get the acknowledgment you felt you rightfully deserved?' _Good_, thought John, _I'm sounding like a therapist again_.

'Oh God no,' Scoffed Sherlock. 'It was just _annoying_. See the serial killer forced me to choose between two pills. One would have killed me. The other pill was simply a placebo, but it was impossible to distinguish the two. I am completely certain that I chose the correct pill to swallow, but before I had the opportunity he ended up dying of a-' Sherlock stopped mid-sentence to accept the pitcher of beer from the bartender and pour himself another glass. '-aneurism. I dropped the pill trying to save his life, and then Lestrade showed up. It was all a very boring ordeal. They even tried to put a shock blanket on me afterwards. I hate shock blankets. They look absolutely idiotic.' Sherlock finally stopped to let out a huff of air and then gazed lazily at John.

'Sherlock are you drunk?' John asked, baffled by thought of Sherlock actually being able to be affected by alcohol.

'Slightly…Yes.' He said in between taking sips of beer. 'That does not however impair my speech or my intellectual capability's.'

'Oh yes, God forbid,' Said John while mockingly waiving his hands around. 'Shit, I'm sorry. That wasn't very professional.'

'It's fine. I don't mind. In fact I somewhat enjoy talking to you. Which is rare by the way, because I'm a sociopath, I'm sure you already read that in my medical file though.' Sherlock frowned slightly as if he was beginning to realize he did not have the control over himself he had expected while intoxicated.

'Sherlock I am a psychiatrist. I am your psychiatrist…Even though after tonight there is no way your brother will allow this to continue happening…Anyway the point is that I have seen sociopaths, and I swear to you…You are anything but.'

Sherlock set down his glass and stared at John. 'You have no reason to be kind to me, but you are. Why?'

"It's my job to help you and I intend to. Now let's get you home before you make an even bigger ass out of yourself than you already have.'

'John I am perfectly capable of getting home by myself, but thank you for offering.'

'Please, don't kid yourself,' said John rolling his eyes. 'I was going to call a friend or someone of the sorts to pick you up.' Sherlock looked at him in confusion.

"What do you mean? I don't have friends.' Sherlock began to look around for the bartender again.

'Will you _please_ stop drinking? It's stressing me, and what do you mean you don't have friends. Everyone's got friends. Hell even Voldemort had followers.'

'Voldemort? Is that some sort of cheese. No, no I know all brands of cheese.'

'You've got to be kidding me. You don't know Harry Potter. No wonder you're in therapy. Ah fuck that wasn't good. I'm sorry…again.' John looked at Sherlock apologetically, but he just smirked at him while slumping down into his chair. 'Ok we've really got to get you home. Give me your phone.'

'John whatever you do I swear to you if you call my brother and inform him of my intoxication you will never see me in your office again.' Sherlock raised his eyebrows as if to say "try me."

'Okay, fine. If not your brother than who should I call to pick your-' Sherlock snatched the phone away. _Arrogant bastard_, thought John, _he even whines when you're helping him out._

'Well…' he paused. 'I have a house keeper. She isn't a friend…and she isn't even a house keeper truthfully, but she may be able to convince you that I am perfectly capable of walking home.'

'Fine then, go on and walk home all by yourself.' Sherlock stood up and then immediately lost his balance falling back into his chair.

'…I…I…may be in need of your assistance. Just to hail a cab.' He admitted pitifully. John stood up beside him and held out his arm.

'Okay come on,' Sherlock grabbed onto his arm and rose slowly. 'Why do you have to be so bloody tall?' John asked throwing a couple of bills on the table.

'I'm not that tall. You're just very short.' John sighed and helped Sherlock outside of the pub.

'So where do you live?' He began to look around thankful that he actually knew this part of London well.

'You paid for my drinks. That's not appropriate.'

'Sherlock you pay me three hundred and seventy two pounds an hour. It's fine. Now tell me, where do you live?' John continuously had to remind himself that Sherlock was a client and that he could not punch him in the face, but then Sherlock would smirk or laugh and John would again have to remind himself that he was a client for a whole other reason.

Sherlock stumbled on the sidewalk and yelled, '221b Baker Street.'

'_What_? Are you alright?' John rushed over to Sherlock who was now on the ground.

'I have had copious amounts of alcohol; consequently, I had a slight miscalculation in my ability to balance myself.' He said leaning on John. _This_, thought John, _Is becoming very unprofessional_.

'Yes, obviously you are drunk. Very, very, very drunk. What where you saying though. You said something like 121 Baking Street.' Sherlock shook his head.

'No, no 221b Baker Street. It is where I _reside_.' Sherlock stumbled again.

'_Where you reside_? Jesus, are you trying to sound like a pompous arse? Here let's sit here for a second.' John walked over to a bench and steadily helped Sherlock Down. 'Okay let's think,' John plotted in his mind where they were and where Baker Street was located. '221b Baker Street isn't that near the Baskin Robbins? That's not far from here at all. Sherlock…Sherlock are you even-' John looked over at the now sleeping Sherlock and imagined how this awful set up would have gone if Sherlock wasn't one of his patients. He began to chuckle at the horrifyingly comical thought. John walked up to the curb and tried to hail a cab when a sleek black car pulled up beside him.

'Dr. Watson,' Said the other Mr. Holmes. 'Can I interest you in a ride?' John looked from Sherlock to Mycroft and sighed. 'He won't wake up don't worry.'

'Alright but he can't know about this.' He said as the driver got out helping lift Sherlock off of the bench. Of course Mycroft stayed inside the car as if there were no other option.

'It is our little secret.' Mycroft smirked while opening the door for them. 'Does he happen to know about our other little secret?'

'Do you mean the one where you manipulated me into-'

Mycroft cut him off quickly, 'Yes, yes that would be the one.'

'No I haven't told him, and I don't plan on telling him if that what this whole "being kind" and giving us a lift thing is about.' John spat out bitterly.

'You like him Dr. Watson. How…odd.' Mycroft titled his head slightly and John knew that he was seeing every secret he tried so carefully to keep hidden. 'I should warn you Sherlock does not like people. You will only hurt yourself by caring about him.'

'Who says I care about him?' John asked crossing his arms.

'I am not a stupid man Dr. Watson. You know this, so please act like it.' The car stopped in front of 221b and John tried to get out, but Mycroft lifted his umbrella blocking the car door. 'I did you a favor and I can take it back one way or another. I promise you. Do not ruin this with your asinine emotions.'

'I've only just met him.' John said lifting up Sherlock by his armpits just to have him slump right back over.

'Yet here you are dragging him around in his drunken stupor, and I highly doubt it's just because this scenario reminds you of home. Although I rarely do understand the idiocy of sentiment.

John glared at him in fury trying not to lose his temper. 'You know you could make Sherlock look like a Saint.' With that, Mycroft dropped his umbrella and finally let John out. He tried to leave with at least a little dignity, but it was nearly impossible with having to practically drag Sherlock out of the car.

'I am only so cruel because I worry about him…_dearly_.' Mycroft looked into Johns eyes and he knew that he was telling the truth, but it would not make up for the fact that Mycroft was the most manipulative individual that John had ever met. 'Have a good rest of the evening Doctor,' and with that he drove off.

John sat on the curb for almost an hour while Sherlock slept. He didn't' have a key and he didn't feel like rummaging through Sherlock's coat to find them. He had crossed to many lines tonight already. He supposed he could buzz up to the house keeper, but it was already late into the night and he didn't want to disturb her. God knows she probably got enough of that living with Sherlock. He felt something move beside him and began to worry it was-

'It's not a cockroach it's just me.' Sherlock yawned and stretched beside him like a cat just waking up from a nap.

'Good you're up. Do you have a key?' John sounded angrier than he should of and silently cursed himself for not being able to control himself.

'How did you arrive here so quickly? I'm six inches taller than you and weigh approximately two stones more than you.' Sherlock stood up dusting off his suit.

'You're forgetting I was a solider. Now keys please,' He said holding out his hands. Sherlock dug through his pockets and pulled them out handing them to John. John opened the door and ushered Sherlock in. They stood there in the hallway just looking at each other until Sherlock spoke.

'That was good…What you did earlier…Walking me home…While I was-'

'Drunk of your arse,' Interrupted John. 'Yeah I know I'm a good person. Remind me to work on you showing gratitude next session.'

Sherlock's eyebrows scrunched together. 'You're going to continue being my psychiatrist.'

'Yes I am. You may have been drinking, but I was not. I treated our outing like our second session. So I will see you next Thursday then?' Said John walking towards the door.

Sherlock cleared his throat. 'Yes, next Thursday is my next appointment.'

'Okay then. Goodnight Sherlock.' John opened the door and stepped outside onto the busy streets of London. He took a deep breath and began to walk home. He had to stop this, whatever _this _was. He had to be professional or else Mycroft would make sure he would regret it, and he couldn't have that.


End file.
